


The Serpent's Mask

by shadow_lover



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Allies, Identity Porn, Important Shower Conversation, M/M, POV Laurent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-09 06:51:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8880145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/pseuds/shadow_lover
Summary: In the center of the room is a steel surgical table, upon which Laurent’s new minion is spread out and shackled. He’s shirtless, revealing a sweat-sheened expanse of olive skin, and Laurent’s first impression is, Oh my god, are those abs even real?His second is, Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lockhearted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockhearted/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! :)
> 
> And thank you to [Snow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snow/works) for your help.

Laurent’s rocketing from one skyscraper to the next when his flight vest breaks. Even with the explosions and sirens from the streets below, he distinctly hears the _snap_ just behind him, and then the hiss of air. A valve cap’s gone.

_Fuck._

He won’t make the next building, not without splatting on the windows, so he redirects. His fingers fly over the control glove tight on his left forearm. He cuts the forward propulsion and—before gravity fully remembers him—shifts all power _up_.

Now he hears only the wind screaming past his ears. His stomach clenches; he plummets, and all he can do is grit his teeth and hope the vest is intact enough to stay his fall.

It is. A moment later, he hovers shakily two feet above filth-stained concrete. He gasps for breath and takes in his surroundings. He’s in an alleyway, between a large, smelly dumpster and a larger, smellier dumpster.

Laurent deactivates the vest and drops the rest of the way. Though he staggers, he manages to keep his feet—until the next explosion down the street knocks him to his knees. He can’t see the flames, but the mouth of the alleyway flashes red for a second. Heat ruffles through his hair, over his skin, even through his concealing mask.

_Fuck. ___

__He’s grounded in Delfeur. Any second, one of The Bastard’s fireballs could roll down the alley and burn him to a crisp. His predicament is no accident. He knows without checking that his flight vest has been tampered with; this is why Uncle wanted him out on recon today._ _

__Laurent does not intend to burn to a crisp._ _

__He ducks behind the larger, smellier dumpster and looks around. Neither escape route is promising. The main street’s no good—he’s poorly equipped to fight heroes from the ground. His powers have little offensive use. He’ll end up dead, or shackled in a government prison like Auguste. Further down, the alley leads towards a residential neighborhood, where a masked man in a flight vest will undoubtedly draw attention. He gives it fifteen minutes, tops, before shaky cell phone footage shows up on YouTube, and Uncle will—_ _

__Well. Yet another of the Serpent Prince’s indiscretions. How can Laurent expect to lead VERE when he can’t even keep his photograph off Twitter?_ _

__A mask is an odd way of hiding. It conceals, while drawing attention to that concealment. Laurent removes his quickly, wincing at the familiar tingle as it disengages. He blinks through the optical transition—the world becomes slightly sharper, and the signals and numbers vanish from his peripheral view. His face feels cold and bare without the mask._ _

__It’s a lovely piece of technology. Sleek, dark, lightweight but packed with sensors and enhancers. He refined it himself. Despite its delicate appearance, when hit from the outside it can withstand the force of a ten-story fall, or even—though he hasn’t yet had a chance to test this—a punch from the Crimson Beast._ _

__When hit from the inside, it shatters under Laurent’s boot heel. He scrapes the shards under the dumpster. An inelegant solution, but he’s pressed for time._ _

__The flight vest is easier to dispose of. He simply unbuckles it—well, there’s nothing simple about it, with the sheer number of buckles—but he has it off fast, then takes a few large steps back. He taps the detonation code with his eyes closed. The explosion is loud and bright but not large. When he opens his eyes, the vest is just a jumble of smoking components, flickering wires, and singed leather._ _

__He kicks that under the dumpster too, gingerly. There. Probably it won’t explode more under the dumpster—if so, it doesn’t matter, as long as he’s out of here quickly._ _

__The earth rocks, again. Thunderous force sends him to his knees, again. Fuck. This one was closer. He needs to leave. If he’s hurt and found by VERE, he doesn’t trust his uncle’s minions not to finish him off instead of rescuing him. If he gets hurt and found by the League, well. For all their high ideals, the League is not kind to captured villains._ _

__He stays on his knees another second, waiting for the dizziness to pass. The concrete is rough and warm under his palms. His throat burns and his eyes sting. _Fuck.__ _

__A thud, not far away, followed not by heat but by footsteps. Someone is in the alley and drawing nearer._ _

__Laurent scrambles to his feet and rips his control glove off so fast it stings. He barely shoves it in his back pocket in time. Heart pounding, he looks up at the approaching super—because only a super could have footsteps that loud._ _

__When he sees who it is, shock douses him like ice water. Only a lifetime in VERE Tower keeps his jaw from dropping. His whole body trembles with the urge to lunge forward, to claw—_ _

__Before him stands the Crimson Beast. In gleaming gold and red, from his pristine knee-high boots up his skintight, molded—those _can’t_ be his real abs, right?—suit armor, up to the golden half-mask that does nothing to obscure the solid square of his jaw. Between the boots and the skirt of his suit, his well-muscled thighs are bare and gleaming. His shield of righteousness is slung over his back, his sword of justice at his hip._ _

__Laurent thinks, _That is the shield that knocked my brother from the sky.__ _

__And then, _I can kill him here.__ _

__But he won’t._ _

__He can’t read the Beast’s expression past the mask. The golden mask has a way of casting the gaze aside, and he can’t get a clear view of anything beyond a tightening jaw. So instead, he concentrates, trying to get a lock on the Beast’s mind. He’s looking for rage, malintent, triumph—and finds none of them._ _

__The Beasts rests a hand on the corner of the dumpster, an easy movement that extends his bare, muscular arm, and he says, “Are you all right?”_ _

__His voice is clear and carrying. A battle-cry voice. Laurent hears every word, but doesn’t understand the sum of them at first._ _

__Then he does, and he bites back a grin: the Beast does not recognize him. As careful as he’s been, he’s still feared that someone might have leaked his face to the League. But perhaps even Uncle doesn’t yet dare that transgression._ _

__Laurent can sense the Beast’s emotions clear as anything, now. The Beast is _concerned_ for him._ _

__Hopefully his moment of assessment can be taken for shock and awe at the proximity of the League’s greatest—or at least, most photogenic—hero. “I’m all right,” he says, his voice rough with smoke. He gestures down the alley. “I’m heading that way.”_ _

__He does not flinch when the Beast strides forward._ _

__He does not._ _

__“I’ll get you out of here,” the Beast says, comfortingly. He has to think Laurent’s faint trembling is fear instead of murderous rage._ _

__“I’m all right,” Laurent says again, drawing his shoulders back to reinforce his glare. “Go find another kitten to rescue.”_ _

__The Beast glances down the alley. “It’s not safe,” he says. “VERE has a unit that way. Come on, I’ll fly you out.”_ _

__Laurent can’t say, _Of course VERE has a unit that way, that is the point_ , and he can’t say, _How the fuck did you know, did that brute Govart trip over an alarm again_ , and he can’t say, _Touch me and I’ll gut you like a fish_. So he clenches his jaw and grits out, “Fine.”_ _

__The Beast grins and steps forward. He’s broad and bulky and imposing and the air is suddenly as hot as if another fireball had hit. He doesn’t seem phased by Laurent’s ill temper, and he wastes no time in sweeping Laurent off his feet._ _

__“ _Hey_ ,” Laurent starts, and his voice is higher than he’d like it to be. Getting swept up bridal style by the Crimson Beast is entirely disconcerting. Then a slight dip, as the Beast bends his knees—and they’re rocketing into the air. Laurent has no choice but to seize hold of the Beast’s shoulders for balance._ _

__It’s not the stomach-dropping rush that bothers him, or the sudden turns. He’s used to flying. He flies all the time. But never without his mask, never without his own vest. Never without control._ _

__He screws his eyes shut against the wind and buries his face in the Beast’s shoulder. He has no vest now. This time, only his enemy’s supernaturally strong arms are keeping him from plummeting to earth._ _

__They slow after a moment. It’s only a moment, he knows, though it feels like longer. They’re still flying forward, but now the wind is quiet enough that he can hear the Beast saying, “I’m sorry.”_ _

__Laurent opens his eyes. He sees nothing but golden armor and olive skin. “For?”_ _

__“I should have asked—are you scared of heights?”_ _

__He considers. It’s as convenient excuse as any. “Not heights,” he says. “But I'm not fond of falling.”_ _

__The Beast’s arms tighten infinitesimally. “I won’t let you fall.”_ _

__“No shit you won’t,” Laurent mutters. Heroes are so fucking predictable._ _

__The Beast just laughs, then says, “Hold on.”_ _

__Their descent towards neighboring Patras City is slow and steady. The Beast’s grip is rock-solid, as if Laurent really is no heavier than a kitten. Laurent turns his head so he can see where they’re going, and he’s caught by the wide blue beauty of the sky, of white clouds scudding through it. Behind them, he knows, there is smoke and flame and darkness, but the world before them is only bright._ _

__He can even ignore the warmth of the Beast’s emotions filtering between his: a satisfaction verging on attraction. Enough people are attracted to Laurent that he’s used to it. At least now that he’s older, he knows how to separate out others’ arousal, so he no longer mistakes it for his own._ _

__They hover above a city square, and there are sudden flashes of light from the crowd. Laurent turns his face back into the Beast’s chest when he realizes the witnesses are taking pictures. Of course; the Beast’s descending with a helpless damsel in his arms. The tabloids love that shit._ _

__“Wait,” Laurent says urgently. “Put me down somewhere with fewer people.”_ _

__“Got it.” The ease of the Beast’s acquiescence is infuriating. Laurent grits his teeth and hopes his seething rage is not palpable. He doesn’t watch as they course-correct, just holds on for the remainder of the descent._ _

__They touch down in a park, between a duck pond and a swing set. There are people down the block, but they won’t get there fast enough to catch a good picture of Laurent’s face. The Beast sets Laurent down, and he’s as steady on his feet as he can be. He only sways a bit._ _

__“I need to go back,” the Beast says. His gaze is warm—that much is visible past the mask—and lingering. It’s heavy along Laurent’s limbs, along his neck. “But I can call you an Uber or something first. We’re in—”_ _

__“Patras City, yes. I don’t need an Uber. You can just go now.”_ _

__The Beast’s brow furrows. His voice is low with concern, and warm with desire. “Are you sure?”_ _

__“I’m sure I didn’t stutter.”_ _

__Every second the Beast stays is another strand frayed on the fragile rope holding back Laurent’s true emotions. He wants to claw Crimson’s eyes out and feed them to him._ _

__The Crimson Beast is stubborn, but not, it seems, suicidal. “Call the League,” he says, “if you need anything. Ask for me.”_ _

__“Are you done?”_ _

__The Beast— _fuck him_ —laughs. “Most people have said ‘thanks’ by now.”_ _

__“I’m not,” Laurent says, “most people.”_ _

__The Beast steps back, like Laurent’s voice is a whipcrack. “No,” he says, and his voice is tight now, not at all flirtatious. “You’re not.”_ _

__It’s a question, but the Beast doesn’t wait for his answer. He kneels, then he’s a streak of red and gold, whistling upwards. Laurent cranes his neck to watch._ _

__A second later, the sky is empty._ _

__Laurent sighs, and presses his earring. When it hums, he speaks: “This is Serpent Prince—I need a pick-up from Patras City. Bring a spare mask.”_ _

__He doesn’t wait for Jord to confirm before turning the earring off again._ _

____

***

Laurent kneels in the throne room at the heart of VERE Tower, head bowed and fuming. He cannot refuse this mission, not with all the minions gathered around in witness. Not with the recent shame of his grounding—and that one fucking photograph that surfaced. Not with his face, of course, but everyone in VERE recognizes his figure.

That’s not even the real problem.

The problem is the accompanying tabloid headlines. In this very room, Uncle has a copy of _People_ draped over his knee, which he had previously been gesturing with. The little grainy photo shows the Crimson Beast just after touching down, so Laurent is still in his arms. The caption reads:

**Who is he?  
_Crimson says, ‘Call me!’_**

Laurent knows the article inside by heart, having confiscated Orlant’s copy yesterday. _Sources close to Crimson confirm he’s eager to hear from his dashing damsel._

Said dashing damsel may have exploded Orlant’s copy.

He desperately needs to restore his image and re-consolidate his influence. A new technological trinket is insufficient. He needs a grand gesture, and Uncle has offered him just that.

If only this grand gesture was less likely to end in Laurent’s unfortunate capture. Auguste always said stealing the Jewel of Verekielos was a glorious dream—it was that dream that had landed the Lion Prince behind bars.

The Jewel’s origin and purpose are unknown, though every minion in the tower has a version they prefer. What’s known is that it is a pale gemstone made from no substance found on earth; it shimmers blue and gold, and emits a haze of light. It is set in a golden circlet, meant to be worn, and it has been proven to enhance superpowers. It has been hypothesized that the Jewel could also be used to develop new powers in the ungifted, or to wake latent ones, but this hypothesis has not been tested. There are reams of international law, hastily drafted and then refined over decades of concern, forbidding scientific experimentation on the Jewel.

This never stopped VERE’s efforts, of course. But the Jewel has been in the government’s custody for fifty years, and is currently housed somewhere in the depths of Akielos Headquarters. Even the League doesn’t have access to it, and they are too law-abiding to put pressure on their government connections.

“I’m always glad to serve VERE,” Laurent says. “But infiltrating Akielos Inc. on my own requires some preparation. I cannot leave within the week.”

He cannot leave at all. This mission is suicide. But if he asks for a week, he will at least have room to maneuver.

“Laurent,” Uncle says. He smiles, and his voice is warm and fond, and Laurent wants to vomit. “You will not be on your own, of course. I’ve acquired a new minion for you; our haste is on his behalf. Come, let me show you.”

He rises, and Laurent rises, and the rest of the room bows low. Laurent braces himself before Uncle’s hand touches his elbow, and is glad his face is unreadable. He wears his new mask even in VERE Tower; for the past six years, very few have seen his bare face.

He descends with his uncle to the very lowest basement of VERE tower. Past the security measures in the pristine lobby—which resembles that of any luxury office building—and past the security measures in the first basement—which rather resembles an extralegal detention center. Minions in body armor and surly expressions jerk up at the sound of their entrance, and even Uncle is not exempt from the retinal scan and weapons search. Laurent certainly is not. They descend three more levels after that, until they reach a broad, round chamber, whose concrete floor slopes for better drainage, and which is lit with painfully bright bare bulbs.

In the center of the room is a steel surgical table, upon which Laurent’s new minion is spread out and shackled. He’s shirtless, revealing a sweat-sheened expanse of olive skin, and Laurent’s first impression is, _Oh my god, are those abs even real?_

His second is, _Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck._

Because even without the red and gold armor and shimmering mask, now that he’d seen him up close, Laurent would recognize the Beast anywhere.

Laurent feels like a valve has broken loose somewhere in him, and he’s about to fall. His uncle has managed something truly surprising—the Crimson Beast, the League’s darling, in VERE hands.

“This meathead’s my accomplice?” he sneers, to cover his shock.

At his voice, the meathead in question jerks against his bonds, which creak alarmingly but do not break. Odd. This particular prison chamber should not be able to contain the Beast. 

“This meathead,” Uncle says, “is Damen Akielos.”

That is the second shock of the day. As Uncle explains Damen Akielos’s role in getting Laurent into Akielos Inc., Laurent reassesses. It is soon apparent that nobody but Laurent realizes that they have captured the Crimson Beast.

The Akielos family runs one of the most successful, cutthroat business empires in the nation, if not the world. Their deep roots in defense and technological industries have led over the years to an eyebrow-raising relationship with the government, which is why they now have custody of the Jewel. Laurent knows little of Damen Akielos—a playboy by reputation. Nobody serious.

Laurent steps closer to inspect the captive as Uncle drones on. As he thought, these are only ordinary manacles. The Beast should be able to break free just by flexing his ridiculous biceps. That he hasn’t means he does not want to reveal his identity. He’s biding his time.

 _Clever,_ Laurent has to admit. He touches the manacle. He doesn’t touch the man, gone still and tense on the metal table. 

The Beast doesn’t say anything. He’s been gagged. But his eyes are wary, assessing, and Laurent has the sense that nobody in this room, not even he himself, knows quite what they’ve caught.

***

He has the Beast—Damen—moved to his own laboratory. Jord and Orlant chain his arms together behind his back, hobble his legs, and blindfold him before frog-marching him up through several levels of VERE Tower. Laurent doesn’t relax until he can lock his own cuffs around the Beast’s wrists. They’re slim, gold-plated, and fit close to the skin, like bracelets. They’re linked to Laurent’s glove controller, and will only come off if he enters the passcode.

He removes the Beast’s blindfold, and sees his black mask reflected in dark eyes. “Do you know who I am?” Laurent asks.

“Laurent,” the Beast says. “The Serpent Prince.” His voice is familiar, but nothing like the resonance he had when they met in burning Delfeur. Perhaps it’s the absence of explosions in the background. “VERE’s tech genius.”

Laurent sees the Beast’s thoughts spinning, and he dares to reach out—just a touch—to sense their direction.

“Don’t think,” Laurent says, “I’ll be easily handled because I lack superpowers.”

The Beast flinches at that, and Laurent leans in closer. “I wasn’t,” the Beast says.

“Everyone does, at first.”

The Beast’s lips press together in a tight line. His restraint is admirable, but disappointing. Laurent gestures for his minions to remove the Beast’s shackles; as they free him of Uncle’s chains, leaving only Laurent’s, he explains: “These cuffs will enforce obedience. I suggest you not test them.”

There are workarounds and weaknesses to the cuffs, of course, when used by anyone but Laurent. It is his hidden ability to sense deception and malintent that render the obedience cuffs a perfect tool for submission.

He continues, “We are not barbarians. I hardly expect you to wear these for the rest of your life. You will wear them through our mission. When I no longer have need of you, I assume my uncle will toss you up for ransom. How much will your brother pay for you, I wonder? Perhaps he can pay in installments, and we can return you in installments.”

Yes, _there_ —he likes the taste of that impotent rage. Not at the threat, but at the word _brother_.

But the Beast only says, “What is this mission? What could you possibly need me for? I’m just—I’m just a damned socialite.”

“That’s true. But apparently, you’re just the damned socialite for this task,” Laurent says. “You’re going to get me into Akielos headquarters, where you will help me steal the Jewel of Verekielos.”

Damen’s eyes widen, and for once, Laurent knows they’re both thinking the same thing:

_This is going to be a shit show._

***

Laurent sends for food, then tells the Beast, “Sit somewhere, be quiet, and don’t touch anything.” He wants to banish him to a cell somewhere, but also doesn’t want Uncle tampering with the cuffs or anything. Or tampering with the Beast.

And while the Beast sits quietly without touching anything, Laurent inspects his flight vests, weaponry, and masks. He can’t afford a malfunction on this mission.

He can’t afford success on this mission, either. If VERE acquires the Jewel again—Laurent’s fingers falter along a vest seam.

He doesn’t want to see the Jewel in Uncle’s hands. The Regent is powerful enough already; with the Jewel augmenting his abilities, and the scheme’s success augmenting his political clout, he will at last be in position to remove Laurent and take the name _King_. 

He’ll also cause unfathomable chaos in the world at large, of course, which Laurent cares about in a distant sort of way. His own survival is paramount. Since Auguste’s imprisonment, there has been nobody else to look out for him. A solitary villain, there is no hero to catch him if he falls. Unless—

He turns, leans back against his desk, and lets his gaze fall on Damen Akielos. Bare-faced, strong-armed, pure and terrifying in his ideals. _If I spin this just right, he may help me,_ Laurent thinks. _He has saved me before._

***

It’s a long night, and Laurent barely sleeps. Not just from time reviewing the maps and blueprints. He has Damen sleeping on the sofa in his bedroom, with an order not to move from said sofa until he grants permission. Even with his cuffs and his ability to sense malintent, it is difficult to close his eyes knowing the Crimson Beast lies not twenty feet away.

It’s a bit hypocritical. After all, Laurent has slept soundly in much closer proximity to much worse people.

Laurent must sleep eventually, though, because when he next opens his eyes, his bedroom is gray and ethereal with the incipient dawn. As always, he lays still for a moment, so he can ascertain where he is, who he is with, and whether he is unharmed and undisturbed. Then he sits, and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, and looks over at his captive hero.

The Beast is lying down, but his eyes are open. He sits when Laurent does. Laurent feels Damen’s nervousness surging, and he smiles behind his mask.

Damen asks, “Do you always wear that to sleep?”

“I wear it everywhere,” Laurent says. “Let me demonstrate.”

At his command, Damen rises from the couch and walks before him into the bathroom. He appears calm, steady on his feet, completely unmuddled by sleep, but his anxiety is bracingly sharp to Laurent’s senses. When he halts in the center of the broad, tiled bathroom, his nerves are visible in his tightening jaw.

Laurent stands beside him, and touches his right manacle. “You reek, Akielos. Strip down and get in the shower.”

Warily, Damen obeys. The slowness of his movements is the only rebellion he is allowed. Laurent could order him to hurry it up, but he refrains. They have time, and Laurent doesn’t want to antagonize him.

“What are you doing?” Damen asks. He knows Laurent is up to something, because he’s a quick learner. He’s already realized Laurent is always up to something.

He can sense a sharpening in Damen’s thoughts, and okay, Laurent knows this looks bad. As much as it pains him, he needs Damen cooperative. So he looks away as Damen’s shirt falls to the tile. He focuses on his own dark-contoured face in the mirror and says lightly, “Your virtue is safe, Akielos, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Fuck you.”

Laurent sighs, and moves to turn on the shower. He turns the spray on full-blast, so it batters down on the slick porcelain. The room rattles with the torrential pounding. Clouds curl towards the ceiling. Hot water, why not, as long as Uncle’s paying for it. And besides, Laurent hates cold water.

“In you go. Stay in until I tell you otherwise.”

Damen moves past him, glaring daggers, but he’s calmer than he was a moment ago. A tame beast, claws sheathed. The water cascades first over his broad shoulders, sluicing down his chest, his thighs, and he keeps his head out of the water, his eyes on Laurent.

Then Laurent crosses the bathroom to turn off the lights. As darkness plunges, Damen’s tension spikes, so palpably that Laurent’s own heart races in sympathy.

“You know,” says Laurent. His bare feet make hardly a sound against the tile; nothing audible through the pounding water. “My mask is waterproof.”

And he steps into the shower as well.

Damen flinches away, back smacking against the wall. When Laurent orders, “Stand still,” Damen hisses, “What the _fuck_.”

Laurent takes a deep breath, steadying himself against the tumult of Damen’s emotions, against his own strange reaction to Damen. He leans forward, curls his hand behind Damen’s neck, and pulls him down until his ear is on a level with Laurent’s mouth. His masked lips brush the wet shell of his ear as he murmurs, “We can talk undetected here.”

Uncle has often promised Laurent’s rooms aren’t monitored. Laurent does not believe this. Whenever he finds a camera or bug, he destroys it, but he doesn’t search for the rest. He simply assumes he is watched at all hours; it’s safest that way.

But with the roar of water, any microphones won’t catch his quiet words in Damen’s ear. The pitch-darkness will conceal them from cameras; the scalding water and rolling steam will confuse any heat-sensitive instruments.

The quality of Damen’s thoughts veers sharply. They are slower, watchful, poised instead of struggling. Damen asks, very quietly, “Why do we need to talk undetected?”

Laurent says, “My uncle must not acquire the Jewel of Verekielos.”

There is a moment of tremendous quiet, as Damen’s emotions go completely still. Laurent holds his breath through it, until Damen says, “Explain.”

“If he gets it, he will not reform society, as most of VERE believes. He will destroy it, and anything rebuilt will be twisted to his will.” He leans in even closer, so his right thigh slides against Damen’s left, so their chests press together through a single layer of hot, drenched fabric. “He will destroy me.”

It’s slippery, and Laurent is on his toes to reach Damen’s ear. His grip tightens on Damen’s neck to steady himself, and then a broad hand touches his waist. Damen turns his head so his own warm lips brush Laurent’s ear. “And it’s about protecting yourself, isn’t it.” There’s scorn in the low voice. 

Laurent laughs. “Who else will? But you have other things to worry about.”

“What happens if we don’t take the Jewel?”

“We _will_ take the Jewel,” he clarifies. “If we don’t, we die. So instead, we’ll take it anyway. Then we’ll keep it.”

And then—Laurent has ideas. Chief among them is leveraging the Jewel for Auguste’s release, but Damen doesn’t need to know that part yet.

“You’re going to get us both killed,” Damen says, and his words sound shocked, but swelling up with that horror is a surge of admiration.

Laurent doesn’t need to be admired—though he rather likes it. “Are you in?”

There’s a long, long pause, filled completely with the pounding water and their pounding hearts. But there is neither deception nor fear in Damen’s mind when he says, “I’m in.”

***

The new plan is easier than the old plan. That is to say, _unspeakably difficult,_ but without the added complication of hiding Damen’s new cuffs.

Around noon, Jord drops them off in downtown Ios. Laurent’s new mask projects a false face, to disguise without attracting attention. As soon as Jord’s car disappears around a corner, Laurent drags Damen on a detour to a seedy motel room, which he pays for with cash on the spot. They don’t have a reservation, because this is not in the old plan.

Laurent kicks the door closed behind him and turns off the projection, so his mask is starless and smooth as ever. He punches a code into his glove control, then says, “Give me your hands.”

Damen obeys. “What are you doing?”

“These cuffs serve multiple purposes.” He removes the first, and already feels Damen’s emotions sharpening as he removes the second and continues: “In addition to enforcing obedience, they also suppress superpowers.”

“I don’t,” Damen says, eyes wide, jaw slack.

Laurent steps back. The cuffs are warm in his hands. “I think you do, Beast.”

“Fuck,” Damen says. His eyes are wild. Unbound, his presence surges. The lights don’t flicker—that’s just Laurent blinking against the waves of raw power. 

He clenches his jaw and stands in place. It is not so much bravery as awe; he cannot turn away from Damen’s radiance. He remembers a wet touch against his waist and a roaring in his ears.

He needs this power on his side. And he thinks he _wants_ it, too.

A breath later, the power settles. Damen no longer seems to glow. He is only a man, standing flushed and poised in the center of a filthy hotel room. His bearing is that of someone who has never knelt for anyone, but he watches Laurent with dark wariness. “You can’t keep me here now.”

“But you’re still staying.”

“Yes.” 

“Why?” Laurent needs the information to act. He certainly doesn’t ask because he’s curious. Not because it’s exhilarating to hear words that so align with the thoughts behind them—a masklessness entirely unfamiliar to him.

Damen frowns, and then surrenders this: “The League wants the Jewel too.”

“Oh. Fuck.”

“If we do nothing, they’ll have it within the month. Now that Kastor’s taken over the company, there’s nothing standing in his way. And—I don’t think he should have it. No more than the Regent should.”

“So you’re not the only Akielos in the League.” Laurent makes a mental correction: the new plan is _fucking impossible_. “I’ve always thought you lot were too cozy with the government. That’s fine. Just obey everything I say, and we’ll get away free. Are you still in?”

“Yes.” There’s something warm in Damen’s voice, in his thoughts, that Laurent can’t quite place. Then his eyes narrow. He steps closer to Laurent, until he’s in touching distance. “Akielos security is better than VERE thinks,” he says. “You won’t get in with any of your tech on you. Not even your mask. If you wear this, they’ll catch you.” His fingers graze Laurent’s shelled cheekbone.

Laurent’s own fingers fly to the edge of his mask. The rest of the tech, that was expected—but the mask. Fuck. Uncle must have known. Laurent would walk in, disguised, and his disguise that would be his downfall.

He doesn’t want to take his mask off, but he’s left with no choice. If Uncle requires a grand gesture of him—well. Then he’ll walk bare-faced before a million eyes, and reveal himself to the world.

Somehow, that thought is easier than revealing himself to just one person. He takes a deep breath. “Well,” he says. “I supposed it’s nothing you haven’t seen.” And he pulls off the mask.

Damen’s eyes widen in instant recognition. “Laurent,” he says. “Oh, wow.”

Laurent shifts away, slightly, barely able to meet Damen’s eyes. His skin prickles with the cold air, with the sheer intensity of Damen’s gaze. “What?”

Damen grins. “Sorry, just—no wonder you were so cranky when I saved you.”

“I didn’t need _saving_ ,” he protests.

“And no wonder you never called.”

It sounds less tawdry when he says it. Not a tacky tabloid headline, but an offer, underscored by the straightforward attraction emanating from the hero. An open hand, that Laurent is stunned to realize he wouldn’t mind taking.

Laurent flushes.

“No wonder,” he repeats quietly. Then he takes a deep breath and snaps back into action mode. “Now—I need you to stash this shit on the roof for us to pick up later. Meet me downstairs in two minutes.”

And everything goes according to plan, except for this: Damen’s hand, blazing hot on his shoulder, for luck.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] The Serpent's Mask](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12907983) by [Annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annapods/pseuds/Annapods)




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